


Viva la Bam - Nostalgia

by CreativeLiterature



Series: Bam-world [2]
Category: Viva La Bam RPF
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28767792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeLiterature/pseuds/CreativeLiterature
Summary: Some thoughts on how hard it is to break away from the Margeras and Westchester.
Series: Bam-world [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091168





	1. Chapter 1

The water was so blue, with fishes and whales, and dolphins and sharks which bit, and the bubbles formed a surface, a conscience, a pull and tug back to reality…

The eyes that blinked were not mine, the body someone else’s, and the voice surely someone else; coughing and spluttering, the hot white sand and the lazy day, the hurrying of footsteps, to help me out of the sea, and glimpsing that facade, that nothingness…

That breathing that was mine, the sheets that curled in my toes, the whirring of the lawn mower that came from somewhere near. The room solidly four walls my own, the possessions scattered like a bird’s nest, the colours and smells so familiar, so unknown.

The sheets strained tight, pulling against their embraces, held me like a net, the carpet a thud, my face breathing every inch of fur and hair and rug, the tongue that was mine scraping and shuddering and standing up, meeting the photo on the little table.

April stood smiling, and Phil breathed heavily, and Bam with his grin, and Jess’ faded more so, and - me - a search through a drawer found a Penn State acceptance letter, to the Brandywine campus - me - Jessica, or Jessie, Margera.

This, to be hold, to be savored, the parchment to be smelled, to be kissed. The drawer readily shut, the carpet torn between my toes, the errant fluff blew off my mouth.

Outside, from a window I saw Hanna, he of Mark, he the neighbor, back and forth that green strip, seeing April sit out on the patio with a mug, Phil with his  _ Daily Local _ , Bam nodding as he jangled keys, Jess wandering out with a beer.

The blue sky and clouds stretched, the hubbub of suburbs, dog walking and passersby on the footpath, further still the fields and land of Westchester, that brick and mortar home.

Here, resounded a tinny sound in my mind, an enclave to me. In this bedroom, I chanced to the hallway, heard no one, saw no one, ducked into the shower. 

One towel on the hook belonged to me, the faucet twisted, the water swirled, the faucet leaked. The so-and-so face looked back at me. This, a smile. This, a guise.

Inside, that enclave I called my bedroom, buttoned some jeans, tore on a shirt, wrapped a scarf for flair, noticed my freckles, dabbed my eyes, chose my shoes, found my keys.

Downstairs, the railing heavy, the padding of my footsteps, the chirruping of voices alongside birds frittering from one branch to another. Outside, the earthworms in Ape’s garden. The stepping stones to the letterbox. The car which was April’s PT Cruiser. The van that was Phil’s. The beat-up that was mine.

Westchester came to a crawl. The traffic, the light, the passersby. Old stores, new stores, patrons at tables of restaurants and cafes, those brightest of colours in clothing stores, Fairman’s, pressed against it little skaters with big dreams.

Inside, the bell jangled, a politeness dispensed, the checking of hats and skateboards and clothes. The owner, warily, enthused, watched with all that was common. That, and my footsteps. Those, and my eyes glancing. Some, and could be spared, a look.

A look, a look, a glance, a raised eyebrow, a denuded look, he went back to his sorting, to inventory, to being a cashier, a proprietor, and the bell jangled, and heat baked me.

Heat, and an ice cream from a cafe to cool me down. The cone was hard, the ice cream soft, the park bench covered in bird shit, a tree overhanging, a pair of elderly couples walking, their firm hands, their firm cane, withered like the pigeons, the brick rotting with sparse grass, the worm, ever hopeful, coming to play.

A bird took it, and so did all my hopes, snuffed and extinguished in one. I gripped the bench, that solidly firm comeuppance to the worm, for poking his head out, for daring to dream.

The steering wheel turned as I did, turned off the road, off my mind, so I dared, so I saw, that house of mine, of Margeras, booming, bleary, a haze, a fuzz, recollection, a jolt and shake of nerves, a frisson, a tearing of eyes, a sniff, a whimper, a bang.

The car sat silent, my hands drumming in my lap, the eyes around me not staring, the group of people outside the house, drinking, smoking, laughing, eyes eyes eyes.

They were staring, they were present, their laughs, their smirks, their giggles even turning into laughter, the smell of their sweat, their t-shirts, their shorts, the hair on their legs.

Out, the car door slammed, an announcement, a drilling in my brain, a walk to-fro, up from the stepping stones, a lightness, a chill, the breeze, a door slammed, elsewhere, in the front door, to the jug, that hottest of boiling, that sip of green tea, that quiet and closed door and eyes closed, and simpering, sitting, making do, relaxing, uncoiling, chastened, blessed.


	2. Chapter 2

Sweet, sweet smell of gardenia. On bended knee, on folded knees, on feet light to trot, from passing of mother to daughter, that feel, the warmth, the curl of a smile, of a flame sadly lit, passing one torch to another, a seedling, that knowledge, the curl of a leaf, the dispersing of ants, thudding into the soil, their mad running, a lament, a sigh, that not all could be peaceful.

Bam, his footsteps, his wide grin. His lament, a song, a reproach, a pointed finger, jibber-jabber. April bemoaned, Bam took it in his fistfuls with soil in his fingerless gloves, the ants went flying, tears sprung to my lips, weeping, wallowing, solitude, a slammed door, a thud against the wood - out, errant thoughts, out - a wail, a screech, an insistent knocking.

April, her surprise, confusion, her embrace, a wail, a sudden halt, an apology only half hearted from Bam, all at once, the fury, delving into my mind, sifting it with a finger, hearing April and Bam fight, the door closed once more, soil on my hands and on my knees, the carpet dirty, the sheets now dirty, my mind no longer clean.

Phil, that printed type, the papers he handed over, his desk cluttered, his coupons sticking out of that manila folder. Scrunching, itching, scratching, breathing, heaving, wheezing. The dust, the venetian blinds, the carpet, his eyes errant like a bug’s, his warmth palpable, his intensity furious, his demeaning, his intent, to know, to succor, the pride of place of his heart and home, his knowledge, that manifest destiny of his, to pass onto his children what skills he could.

That, and his eating, his hoagie, the shirt of his stained with red, he munching, he pointing to the computer, the contracts and type, the savings and money. This, my deliverance, a piece of paper. My new card. This money, this pittance. This reality, this world.

Penn State, that college, broad and beaming, blue and white, lions their mascot, lions the attire for blue-blooded students, back and forth, their backpacks, gazing eyes, the atmosphere, the high, the squeal.

Lining up, those dormitories for live-ins, the classes which stretched, the teachers who spent eons, gesturing and speaking, the glazed eyes of students, of pens clicked, papers ruffled, movement, whispers, talking, jotting down notes, wonder, appraisal, momentary pause.

The curiosity swamped, the danger undertaken, the risk a current, a wave of ideas, subsuming, a raised hand, the diction, the direction, the filing out of class, one to another.

Cafes opened up, bright and smiling, invitations offered, cast-iron chairs scraping, laughter and middlemen as waiters, scraping and pushing, talking and harried to-fro, wondering, that blue sky, that heat-haze, those bees on the flowers, the grass sprung up from footsteps, the footpath a mile long, the end of days at the ticking of a clock.


	3. Chapter 3

Pulsing, pulsing, pulsing.

The ebb and errant flow, that wide expanse populated, of a tight room, those men and women, so young and so free, that ebb and flow, the music pulsing, their footsteps a tide on the wind.

The drumming, that music, so loud, a headache, forming a group, pairs and singletons, glancing, smiling, looking, touching. Beer, so much beer. Liquor in stinking rises, that ale, that heady mix, all charm, no touching, suddenly touching, perspiration a heady mix, that sweat on their shirts, their pants wiped, a handshake offered, that kin of theirs and of mine, a collection for display, the best qualities they could conjure, and a nod to defer such praise.

Every facial smile, the mix, the best, a pull, a tug, lust coiling like a serpent, unleashing, a kiss here and there, a touch, a grope, a withdrawal, the sucking on a cigarette, a heady mix and scratching my forehead, the night air, the yells, the partying, the booming, the lust.

So, the lust. Everything and nothing, a pit to fall into, to die with rhythmic snakes in your belly, that most potent between your legs, to find and replace, that heart, sickened with oil and black tar, filling you, spreading you wide, expectation a lost hope, determination that all should be alright.

Their faces a sheen, their smiles a guise, their charm on the offensive. Night, that endless black, the pinpricks of stars, no watch could be checked, no time existed, nothing to flaunt but one’s gold, one’s charm, a tug and a pull, a hand there, and soon, at last, waves of sleep, blessed sleep, one’s sheets spent alone, a heart aching, a stomach empty, pulsing into a bin, that sickening sweet smell, fading out, dying out, losing at last that consciousness.

Losing a dream, fading into reality, waking into sleep.

Gone, gone, gone. All was gone.

The car sputtered and lived, here where Westchester grew, this place of memories, of hubbub about, of most ordinary stature, where the Margera letterbox grew, where all letters filed to them as fans could, as fans would, as once dunked, as became nonsense.

All useless. All a show. Cameramen here and there, whizzing, smiling, imagining their paycheck. Bam flaunting, speaking, smiling, gesturing. All his friends, folded arms, solid stature, legs spread apart, watching, grinning, grimacing.

All for show - this was all for show.

Gone were those days. The throb in my head, the scratching, the pacing, could any of this be real? How could the heart hold such memories?

A wash, a tide anew, the blinking of blue, that beach of rocks, of white sand, surfacing, the hands mine, the hair mine, the smell mine. Eyes, no longer Margera. Eyes, going to the horizon. The horizon, where ocean beckoned, where  _ their _ house lay, no more was I there, only was it a dream.

No more with the Margeras, no more with Westchester, coursing, weighing me like a blanket, lifting like a breeze, empty were my veins. Slugging, dragging, those sore collections of memories from the beach to the car, a snap of the boot, a drive to an empty home.


End file.
